


You've Got To Walk That Lonesome Valley

by FlyingMachine



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, S1E1: Pilot, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingMachine/pseuds/FlyingMachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben deals with the aftermath of Rogers' ambush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got To Walk That Lonesome Valley

Wrapped in a borrowed coat that did nothing to keep him warm, Ben Tallmadge slowly made his way back to his tent. He felt unsteady on his feet; the adrenaline that kept him moving after his patrol had been ambushed was long gone, leaving him exhausted and in pain from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. The green bonnet stuffed in his pocket bumped his hip with every step. He couldn’t stop shivering, he felt chilled to his core.

The camp’s surgeon had cleaned and bandaged his wound and told him he was lucky the round hadn’t smashed his collarbone. He’d put Ben on the sick roster for the next few days and forbidden him from riding. Light-headed and nauseated from the procedure, Ben had barely acknowledged him. He did not feel lucky to have escaped Rogers’ ambush, only empty and sick. 

Ben was tired of hearing the word _luck_ today. Scott’s insistence that the ambush was “just bad luck” frustrated Ben. Scott refused to acknowledge that Ben’s patrol had been attacked deliberately, that someone had leaked their whereabouts to Robert Rogers. Scott’s approach to gathering intelligence would only get more men killed. Ben knew there was a better way, but Scott was too stubborn and set in his ways to admit that he was wrong. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Ben stumbled over a stone, sending a jolt through his shoulder. He hissed at the sudden pain, cradling his bad arm against his chest. The wound was throbbing and felt hot under the tight bandages. He wondered if Caleb had any whiskey to spare. He wasn’t sure he’d sleep tonight without it. A wave of dizziness passed through him and he knew he must be swaying a little on his feet. 

He silently cursed Rogers for his unwanted souvenir from an already terrible day. Ben felt his stomach twist with nausea as he remembered the confusion and fear of the ambush. He didn’t want to think about his dead companions, the men who had trusted him to lead them. He had failed them, leading them only to death in a nameless clearing. 

His tent was dark and Caleb’s cot was empty. So much for the whiskey. Ben didn’t bother to light the candle and shrugged out of his coat. He sank into his cot and was halfway through the motion of removing his boots when a bolt of pain from his shoulder stopped him cold. It was the latest failure in a long day of the same, and Ben could have wept with frustration. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Crying would serve no purpose, it would not bring back the dead.

He took several deep breaths to regain his control and gave up on his boots, too exhausted to care. Removing them would not make him more comfortable anyway. He laid back carefully on his cot, curled on his good side. Sleeping on his back was out of the question. Rogers’ bullet had gone clean through his shoulder. He pulled his blanket up to his nose, hoping the heavy wool would warm him.

Despite his exhaustion, Ben couldn’t sleep, kept awake by the pain of his wound. He slipped into a half-doze, dreaming of blurred brown and green and the stink of gunpowder. A phantom bayonet slid past his ribs and he startled awake, heart pounding. His shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart. Chills crept along his spine and a deep ache had settled into his joints. Miserable, Ben pulled the blanket around him more tightly and prayed halfheartedly for sleep.

Sleep didn’t come, but the swish of the tent flap opening startled Ben from his daze. He levered himself up on his elbow, wincing. Caleb’s lantern illuminated his bearded face.

“Benny-boy! Made it back in on piece, did you?” he asked, grinning. 

“More or less,” Ben replied, surprised at how rough his voice sounded. Caleb’s grin disappeared when his eyes fell to Ben’s bandaged shoulder. He sat on his own cot, and placed the lantern on the ground. 

“You alright?” Caleb asked.

“Yeah,” Ben lied, and it sounded hollow even to him. His arm was trembling, and he sagged back to his cot, hissing as the movement pulled his wound. He wondered if Caleb had gotten word about the ambush. He closed his eyes. The light from Caleb’s lantern was making his head ache.

A weight settled by his hip and a rough hand came down on his forehead. Ben’s eyes flew open, to find Caleb looking down at him.

“You look a little peaky,” Caleb said, concerned. 

“I’m fine,” Ben replied. “Just tired.” 

“If you say so,” Caleb said agreeably. “Don’t look it though.” Ben’s blankets shifted, and Caleb tugged his boots off, careful not to jostle him. Ben flushed, ashamed at his weakness. 

“Caleb, you don’t have to-”

“Shut up, Ben. I know what happened today. Let me take care of you a little, yeah?”

“I don’t need--”

 _”Shut up,”_ Caleb ordered. Ben sighed and closed his eyes. There was no point in arguing with Caleb when he’d made his mind up about something. Caleb tucked Ben’s blanket back around his feet and got up, rustling around in the tent. A cool cloth brushed Ben’s face as Caleb dabbed gently at the blood beneath his nose. Ben flinched, remembering the blow from the rifle-butt that had knocked him senseless. Had the Ranger who’d struck him been able to tell a dead man from a dazed one, Ben would not be sitting here with Caleb now. He shuddered, remembering the long moments of waiting, playing dead while cold water soaked through his clothes. 

“Easy, Tall-boy,” Caleb said, feeling Ben’s tension. Ben forced himself to relax. He was safe, here in his tent with Caleb, surrounded by the familiar sounds of the camp. 

“How’s the shoulder?” Caleb asked, pulling the blanket aside to examine Ben’s bandages. 

“Sore,” Ben murmured. 

“Liar,” Caleb retorted. “It hurts like hell and you know it.” Ben hummed in agreement. He knew Caleb wouldn’t think him weak for admitting it. The sharp scent of alcohol roused him a little, and he opened his eyes to see Caleb’s flask under his nose.

“Drink some of this, it’ll take the edge off,” Caleb said. Ben took the flask and downed several swallows, the whiskey burning all the way into his stomach. The liquor made his eyes water, but he felt the knot of sick tension under his breastbone loosen for the first time since the ambush.

“Little more,” Caleb encouraged. Ben complied, enjoying the way the warmth of the drink spread out under his ribs. He handed the flask back to Caleb, who tucked it under Ben’s pillow.

“You’ll probably want more of that later,” Caleb told him.

Ben shifted in his cot, trying to get more comfortable. Caleb’s whiskey was doing its good work: the pain in his shoulder was fading to a tolerable ache and he thought he might actually be able to sleep now. He still felt chilled, and he couldn’t seem to stop trembling. Caleb grabbed his own blanket and spread it over Ben, tucking it up to his nose. Ben curled into its warmth, grateful for the loan. Caleb squeezed his shoulder gently, careful not to disturb the wound.

“I know you’re not alright, Benny,” Caleb said quietly. “You will be, though.”

Ben hoped he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written to fill a "fluff" prompt on the Turn meme. Ben's loss of _his entire patrol_ in the pilot is pretty glossed over, despite it being a major motivation for many of his later actions and a catalyst for his participation in the Culper ring.


End file.
